


Welcome To America

by fanfiction_fanfriction, orphan_account



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: 50s au, Gen, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-03-31 13:07:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3979183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanfiction_fanfriction/pseuds/fanfiction_fanfriction, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of WWII, two brothers, Anatoly and Vladimir, make their way to America. It's 1951, the height of the Red Scare, and they soon learn that being Russian isn't the best of nationalities to have during this time. With nothing to their names except war decorations, they're forced to take on some unsavory work to pay the bills. Then enter: two new lawyers, Matt Murdock and Foggy Nelson, starting up their own firm and accidentally picking up the brothers along the way.</p><p>Aka the 50s AU that nobody asked for.</p><p>This fic is discontinued. Sorry everyone!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lenino

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have no excuses. None at all. We would like to apologize in advance, in fact, for taking the two worst human beings in the show and writing this about them.
> 
> We'll be switching off writing chapters and editing together. This first chapter is written by Dendral. Hope y'all enjoy.

When the call to go to war came, Vladimir hadn’t known what to expect. He’d been sixteen when it started, watching his father and brother don the uniform and take up a gun, swearing they’d send letters and that the army would keep civilians safe. News had been spreading of conflict in Europe, and the Soviet Union had been meeting with other leaders, making deals. Anatoly had made good on the first promise, at least. Anatoly was transferred to a base set up in Lithuania and he wrote about the women and the food, and how he missed his little brother. Vladimir had received a new letter each month and each month his heart had pounded and his mouth had gone dry as he opened the envelop, expecting the worst, letting out the breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding upon laying eyes on his brother’s familiar, wispy handwriting.

Despite the promises that the Soviet Union would stay out of the conflict in Europe, that its citizens would be able to live normally again soon, it started annexing countries. Finland fought back and battles broke out along the border. Time passed like this, fighting smaller nations and avoiding Germany’s sights. Two years came and went and Vladimir received the draft notice alongside his brother’s monthly letter. He’d turned eighteen only a week before.

His mother hadn’t cried. She’d sent him off with a hug and a kiss and a longing in her eyes, muttering that she couldn’t believe both her sons were grown up now. She didn’t mention how both her sons might be taken forever.

And bright eyed, filled with hope that he could help keep his country safe, Vladimir went proudly. There was more food in the army than at home, at least.

That had been May, 1941, a month before Germany had turned around to tear out Russia’s throat.

Vladimir checks his watch. It’s still broken, just as it had been the last time he’d checked it, and the near five hundred times before. He sighs, puffing out his dirt-stained cheeks. His watch has been broken for so long, he isn’t sure why he still wears it. Sentiment, perhaps, since Anatoly had been the one to give it to him.

It’s October, 1943. The 33rd Army of the Red Army and the Polish 1st Tadeusz Kościuszko Infantry Division are waiting for the order to advance on Lenino. The Byelorussian landscape is rolling hills, with knee-high grass and few trees. The objective, evidently, is to take territory from the Germans, and Vladimir desperately wants to check the time. He can tell that it’s morning—the sun is to the east and barely above the horizon—but he wants specificity. They always hand out letters around nine and Anatoly’s monthly letter is supposed to be here.

Soldiers amble around, looking for ways to pass the time. A group sits off to Vladimir’s right, one man with a balalaika. The man’s fingers dance over the three strings, plucking delicately, the triangular body resting on his lap. “На поле танки грохотали,” they drone on. “Солдаты шли в последний бой.” Vladimir listens, mumbling the words under his breath to the music.

_In the field the tanks rumbled,_

_The soldiers went to the last battle._

A man slides down next to Vladimir behind the tank where he sits. His uniform is a different shade of green, a fresher one, like the leaves of trees. The collar is blue, embroidered with white. The pockets are in different places. Other than that, their uniforms are almost identical. "Got a light?” he asks in fluent English.

His accent is Polish.

"Нет," Vladimir says, glancing over. The man has a cigarette between his lips. "I do not smoke. It is bad for..." he struggles to form the sentence in English. "It is bad for health. Will kill you."

The man barks out a laugh. His cigarette falls out and he fumbles to catch it before it lands in the mud, but fails to. The filter is covered and he tries to dust it off, but the mud remains steadfast and smears instead. "Dammit," he mumbles. "Just wasted it!"

"Is for better," Vladimir says.

The man turns to Vladimir. He’s older, in his thirties, maybe, with a sharp nose and sunken eyes, stubble along his chin and a blond, trimmed mustache on his upper lip. The man’s brow is quirked, the edges of his mouth raised in an amused smile. "Boy, even if they are bad for you, look around. With everything else out here right now that can kill us, I don't think a cigarette is going to make a goddamn difference.”

“I prefer not to add to list of things that kill me,” Vladimir replies, gritting his teeth. He feels uncomfortable. The man is too close, shoulder bumping his own, and Vladimir can smell sweat and the scent of tobacco on him. When the man smiles at him and laughs at his comment, he sees yellowed teeth and a darkened tongue. Vladimir leans away from the man, not enough to be noticeable but enough to put some distance between them.

“What’s your name, boy?” he asks.

“Vladimir. You?”

“Józef.” The man pulls at the tiny hairs on his chin. “How old are you?”

“Twenty. What did you do? Before…” Vladimir gestures vaguely to their surroundings. The conversation is starting to feel like an interrogation of sorts and Vladimir wants to redirect the attention elsewhere.

“I was a businessman. I owned a shop back in England. Signed up for the Polish army from there. My homeland needed me, after all,” he replied, moving his hand to tug at the edge of his mustache. “I assume you were in school. Any relatives fighting right now?”

“Yes. My father. And my brother.”

“Unfortunate,” Józef says.

They lapse into silence.

“Do you have time?” Vladimir asks and taps the face of his broken watch.

Józef shrugs. “What does it matter? Time doesn’t pass in war.”

Vladimir feels his eye twitch. He exhales sharply and stands. “Thank you anyway,” he says, and makes his way towards a small group of friends. They’ll be better company, he figures.

 

Vladimir dogs Dmitry’s heels as they sprint to cover. Bullets whistle past them and men are going down everywhere, dropping like flies. The grass underfoot is flattened by the steps of soldiers. Booming sounds resonate through the air, explosion after explosion, making the ground shake with the release of each mortar, each fire of the German tanks. Further ahead a patch of ground explodes in front of a group of enemy soldiers. Soil and a single leg flies up into the air, and he hears the screams of the dying.

He wants to block out the screams.

The plan has gone to shit. The Polish divisions are suffering heavy casualties and though they’d taken the first and second line of German trenches, capturing the village of Trigubovo is proving to be a challenge.

That’s an understatement. Trying to capture the village is Hell, their numbers having been reduced by their commanders before the battle had even begun, not to mention the strategy set into motion by the generals going wrong at every stage. The Soviet tanks are delayed; their only support is now nonexistent. Supplies can’t get through, leaving men bleeding on the battlefield. Vladimir wonders how many people have died that could’ve been saved.

They’re running and shooting who they can, a silent contest to see which of them can kill more. Vladimir’s aim is better but Dmitry is in front of him, charging ahead like a bear, meeting each enemy before Vladimir can get to them. Dmitry is faster, even with the weight of the gas mask and his backpack weighing him down.

“Wait, you shithead!” Vladimir yells as Dmitry pulls further ahead.

“Keep up!” Dmitry shouts over his shoulder. Vladimir rolls his eyes, hefts his backpack further up on his shoulders, and moves his legs faster.

A grenade goes off to their left a few meters off, hitting no one. Dirt showers them and Vladimir’s arm goes up instinctively to shield his face. It rattles off his helmet and gets down his sleeve. “We need to get behind cover!” he shouts at Dmitry.

Dmitry isn’t listening to him, though.

Not that it would have mattered.

A grenade lands a meter in front of Dmitry and his momentum is too great. He abruptly stops running, taking two extra steps before halting, when it goes off. Vladimir is a few steps behind him, eyes squeezing shut and hand going up in front of the left side of his face.

His ears are ringing. He hits the ground hard and his shoulder wrenches, and there’s a popping noise as it comes out of its socket. Someone is screaming and it occurs in the back of his mind that it’s him, but at the front there’s nothing but pain in his chest, sharp like knives. His hands are slick, wet. He scrabbles blindly next to him but he can’t find his gun. The air smells of copper and smoke and his tongue tastes like metal. It feels heavy and thick in his mouth. Liquid drips into his right eye and he can’t see from it, but he feels the sting of an open wound on his face, over his eye and down his cheek. He can’t move, can’t breathe, he’s frozen. There’s pressure on his chest, like someone’s stepping on him, and he rolls to his side, coughing. He glances down and through his tunneled vision he sees Dmitry’s eyes staring back at him, wide and blank, face covered in grime and a curtain of red.

He chokes. Blood fills his mouth. It dribbles down his chin and he reaches out with a hand, tangling his fingers in the grass, to drag himself somewhere, anywhere, as long as it’s away from where he knows Dmitry’s body is no longer in one piece. Vladimir can hear nothing but the thumping of his own heart against his ribcage, the wheezes making their way past his lips as he hauls his broken body away.

There’s shouting all around him, coming from every direction. “Medic! We need a medic!” screams a voice; it sounds miles away.

Someone’s hands are on his face and a deep voice says his name. He squints up, trying to focus his gaze, and sees a familiar blond mustache. Vladimir starts to speak, begging between sobs for the pain to stop.

“Vladimir, you must speak English,” he says.

And he can’t. He tries but all that comes out is incoherent Russian, and Józef wraps his arms around Vladimir’s chest and hoists him up. Vladimir gasps, stumbles, tries to get his feet under him and fails, dragging Józef down to the ground with him. Józef catches him and Vladimir stares at the ground because the world around him is spinning and he feels sick, he wants to throw up, he starts heaving but he can’t breathe again and he convulses, black tendrils caressing the edges of his vision and his limbs feel heavy—

 

Colors.

He sees colors. Bright, swimming, a cacophony of hues banging around in his head, swirling and twisting and leaving spots. They melt together, endless rainbows becoming the muddled shades of clay, and his cheeks feel cold like the time his brother shoved his face into a snow flurry, powder up his nose and in his mouth.

He hears voices, muffled and ancient, and he thinks God is talking to him but he doesn’t believe much in God, not since he went to war and saw God-loving and God-fearing men take lives without a second thought. Thinking they’d be forgiven for the crime of following orders.

God has no pity for the living.

He’s floating on the murky sea of colors, waves lapping against his skin like the tongue of his dog back home, cleaning his fingers of the crumbs of sandwiches. He tries to turn his head, to look around, but he can’t move, doesn’t want to move. He wants to stay in the colors, existing and not existing all at once, a weightless being held up by the hands of vibrant shadows.

 

The colors quiet down, eventually, and he lays in darkness, the strands of unfinished thoughts floating out of his reach. He can still hear voices, coming out of the ether, words incoherent but loud, and he recognizes their tones, their pitches.

The first voice is in tenor, clipped and precise, and the face of a man with high cheekbones and slick, black hair pops into his mind. With his voice comes memories of a small house and two young boys shouting and sprinting across dirt roads with sticks pulled from trees in hand, a Siberian Laika at their heels, tongue lolling. The smell of freshly baked bread wafting up the stairs; the soft covers of his small bed pushed into the corner of a shared bedroom; the warmth of soup filling his stomach in winter, bits of chicken and potato floating in a broth.

Russian, his addled brain supplies. брат. Brother. This voice is his brother’s.

The second voice is deeper, baritone, sharp consonants and accented vowels. Cigarette smoke curls around him in snake-like wisps and he tastes tobacco on his tongue, remembers the first and only time he tried to smoke when he was fifteen, choking on the chemicals on the first inhale and tears springing to his eyes, cigarette dropping into the snow while his friends howled with laughter. He thinks of blond mustaches and kind grey eyes, a shop in London with a name none of the locals can pronounce.

He cannot remember this person’s name.

He cannot remember his own name.

What is his name?

 

He opens his eyes to the off-white underside of a tent, illuminated orange by oil lamps hung from hooks. He shoots up into a sitting position only for his abdomen to protest—angrily—and he flops down on the cot, groaning. His arms move up instinctively to prod at the pained area, fingers sliding over soft cloth with frayed edges.

Vladimir realizes then that he’s not seeing out of both eyes, one half of his vision blurred by a faded, beige streak. His hand moves up to his face, feeling clumsily over his right eye and feeling the strips of fabric, wrapped around his forehead and over his cheek.

He glances down again at his abdomen and the word clicks in his head: bandages.

He’s wearing bandages.

Turning his head, he looks around the darkened tent, seeing other cots beside his own and stretching far down the row, men laying in them and nurses tending wounds. Red-stained blankets rest atop the empty bed to his left. Through the flaps of the tent door he sees it is night.

A green blob enters his vision and he shifts his gaze to track the movement. “Vladimir!” the blob says, features becoming clearer. His voice is frantic, tired, but he hears relief. “I am glad you’re awake.”

“Józef?” Vladimir asks as he struggles to sit up. His own voice sounds feeble, tiny. He doesn’t know if Józef can hear him. He can barely hear himself.

Józef puts a hand on his shoulder, forcing him down with a gentle dig of his thumb in the muscle. “Wait here, do not try to move. Your injuries are not yet healed.”

“How long?”

“A week. You were conscious often, but delirious. I shall fetch a nurse—and your brother.”

“My brother is here?” Vladimir is more alert now. He tries sitting up again and once more Józef makes him lay back down.

“You’ve opened your stitches,” Józef says with distaste, eyes narrowed at Vladimir’s stomach. “Just—stay still for a moment, will you?”

And Józef beckons a nurse over before jogging out of the tent. Vladimir does his best not to fidget, tries to follow the nurse’s directions as he lays still and she fixes the stitches. It hurts. It hurts a lot. But Vladimir grits his teeth and no sound escapes his throat.

Józef comes trotting back into the tent, Anatoly in tow. He has bags under his eyes and his uniform is baggy, like it’s too big. His hair isn’t as shiny or wavy, drooping around his head. Upon seeing Vladimir, his eyes seem to brighten and his entire demeanor changes as he rushes to Vladimir’s side, taking up his hand and speaking in rapid-fire Russian.

There’s too many questions he’s asking, and the one he keeps repeating is, “How did this happen?”

“Grenade,” Vladimir rasps. His throat is dry and his tongue is heavy, syllables stumbling over it clumsily. He wonders if he should ask for a glass of water, but Anatoly seems to read his thoughts and stops a passing aid, mumbling to him. The aid nods and darts off. The nurse wipes her hands on a white rag, covering it in blood, and walks away to give them privacy.

Anatoly’s grip on his hand tightens. Vladimir squeezes back. A reassurance? A promise? An apology? Vladimir isn’t sure what to convey, which message to send, but Anatoly smiles at him and trails his fingers through Vladimir’s hair, making it stand up in tufts. His eyes are forgiving and the tension is gone from his shoulders. He leans down and kisses Vladimir’s forehead. “I’m glad you’re alive,” he says, words stilted, like he’s struggling to get them out.

The nurse returns, makes Anatoly step away, and starts to unravel the bandages around Vladimir’s eye. He squints against the light as it hits his pupil. The nurse reaches out to inspect the wound down his cheek and he shies away, heart rate speeding up and his breath coming quickly. It aches and it feels like fragments of metal are still embedded in his skin. He shudders. In the corner of his eye he sees an oblong object, green in color, and he freezes like a deer in the forest, thoughts grinding to a halt. The world stops moving.

Then Anatoly is grabbing his shoulders, shaking him, muttering soft reassurances in Russian. _You’re okay. You’re here, you’re alive. I’ve got you. Focus on my voice, Vladimir._

He zones in on Anatoly’s voice, blinking rapidly. His eyes shift and Anatoly’s face comes into focus in front of his own. His fingers are wrapped around the back of Vladimir’s head and keeping him still, keeping him from backing away. He blocks out the surroundings, leaving himself as the only thing Vladimir can see.

Vladimir realizes then that he’s crying, tears streaming down his face in rivulets and his wound stings as the salt seeps into it. He tries to gain control, tries to shove down the sobs but they break out, fractured. He clamps down on his fist, teeth digging in, fingers curled into his palms, nails biting crescent moons into his skin, and he tries to muffle himself but Anatoly pries his hand away. He brushes a thumb over Vladimir’s cheeks. Vladimir feels small, like a child, but he doesn’t protest.

“I’m sorry,” Vladimir whispers, a confession.

A cup is pressed into his trembling hands. Condensation cools his overheated skin. “There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Anatoly murmurs.

 _Yes_ , thinks Vladimir, Dmitry’s broken body leaving imprints in his mind, blood soaking the ground, the white of his jawbone poking out from under charred skin. _Yes, there is_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Balalaika – Russian stringed instrument with a triangular body and three strings
> 
> На поле танки грохотали – Russian war song, originating from WWII. Vladimir sung it in the show at the end of episode 6. To listen, go here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=da1e9Sz8I8k  
> If you want an approximate translation of the full song, go here : http://lyricstranslate.com/en/na-pole-tanki-grokhotali-na-pole-tanki-grokhotali-field-tanks-rumbled.html
> 
> The battle being referenced is the Battle of Lenino, which took place in Byelorussia between October 12 and October 13, 1943. The USSR’s intentions were to take the territory from the Germans. Though the Red Army and Polish Army didn’t necessarily lose the battle, the victory was pointless due to the devastating toll it took, resulting in 3000 casualties, numerous damage to equipment, and failure to break through German defensive positions. It is more prominent in Polish history than Soviet history, as it was one of the first major engagements the Polish army had in the east.
> 
> Translations:  
> Нет - No  
> брат - Brother


	2. New York Awaits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The brother's arrival in America. To them it seems more dolled up than anything they have ever seen in Moscow. Now with them finally on American soil, they are put more at risk than ever before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo, this is your friend E.C bringing you chapter 2 of Welcome to America.
> 
> The schedule for the fic is hopefully on Wednesdays, depending how long the chapters go, maybe later in the week. The next couple of weeks will be a rocky on as finals are coming up and oh god fucking finals, so please bear with us that there may be a couple of Wednesdays where there is no new chapter.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this one and feedback is always welcomed~

Vladimir stirs at the hollering of men. Boxes scrape across the floor of the upper deck and he hears heavy footsteps across the wooden planks. Vladimir peers between crates at the entrance to the cargo hold. Sunlight trickles through the open door at the top of the stairs. There have only been a few days like this since the brothers boarded the ship, skies clear enough to let the sun into the hold. Most of the time the sky was covered in clouds, or they were awake at night, seeing the twinkling stars as they snuck around to gather food from the mess deck.

“‘Toly,” Vladimir says, nudging Anatoly’s shoulder. “Wake up, we have to leave—they’re unloading the cargo.”

Anatoly groans. “Just a few more minutes will not kill anyone.” His tone sleepy and slurred. He hadn’t been getting enough sleep over the past week due to seasickness.

“We will get arrested if they catch us. Come on, ‘Toly,” Vladimir urges.

Anatoly opens his eyes slowly before letting out a loud yawn and starting to stretch out his tired muscles.

“Stop being such a pest,” Anatoly finally says, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

Vladimir lets out a short sigh; ever since they were little, Anatoly could never just hop out of bed, not even for his own birthday. Vladimir jumps to his feet. “We made it across. Now let’s get off this boat.” He prods his brother in the side with his dirt-covered boot.

“Alright, alright,” Anatoly says as he bites back another yawn. He sits up, stretching his arms over his head, spine popping. He searches blindly, hand slapping around until it lands on the ragged satchel he’d nicked from a man back in Moscow. Anatoly drags it onto his lap and swings the strap over his shoulder. “You need to learn when to slow down. All this rushing about will come back to bite you later.”

“I just want to get off this boat before they find us and send us back, if they do not shoot us first. And if the Americans don’t, the Russians will and they’ll make an example out of our corpses,” Vladimir says, a sour expression on his face.

Anatoly slowly gets to his feet and puts a hand on Vladimir’s shoulder. “Let us go see America, then.”

The two easily sneak off the ship, keeping as quiet as mice as they avoid detection. Quiet yet quick steps until they get off board and onto the docks. They blend into the crowd of dock workers, who are moving things, running around from place to place, busy and unaware of the two Soviet brothers.

Anatoly leads, now more awake and more determined, it seems, to get off the docks and into the city. He keeps a tight grip on Vladimir’s wrist and drags him along, like he used to do when they were young, getting lost and roaming the streets, keeping an eye out for the alley dogs that sniffed around for scraps and the unsuspecting hands of children. Vladimir feels like a child.

Once away from the crowd and the docks, they take a look at the metropolis in front of them. Anatoly’s grin grows.

It looks more gorgeous than anything in Moscow—bright cars and tall, limitless buildings with shimmering glass windows. Everything seems to be filled with life and energy: the cars, the people, even the colorful advertisements.

“It’s New York,” Anatoly remarks in a hushed voice, a bit of wonder in his tone.

The moment is cut short by the sound of police sirens off in the distance. Vladimir stiffens and Anatoly’s head swings around in the direction of the sound. It may not even be for them, but they can’t take the risk. They rush further into the colossal, concrete beast of New York City.

They eventually slow down to a walk when they think they are far enough from the sirens. They walk with the flow of others around them, hustling and bustling to jobs in high buildings. Men with briefcases, women in groups or with strollers, completely ignorant to the two Russian men. It is something that the brothers have never experienced, being unaware of their surroundings.

Advertisements cover almost every building. The brothers can barely read what the adverts are trying to say, but what catches their eyes are the bright pictures: food, women, fancy clothing, bottles of alcohol, cigarettes, and combinations of all those things. Everything screams of wealth, of privilege, of consumerism. Vladimir can’t help but muse about what it must be like to have so much money that he could afford all these luxuries.

The brothers speak in hushed tones, keeping to themselves so nobody hears what they are saying. The last thing they want to do is draw attention to themselves.

 

  
The sun climbs steadily to the center of the sky. They soon find themselves in a park and they sit down on a bench, keeping their sole belongings at their feet. After seeing the ocean for the past week, being cramped on a boat, and hiding both day and night, Vladimir can really use some greenery.

The park is blooming under the late spring sun; trees covered in vibrant green leaves, branches reaching towards the sky; flowers of all colors clumped along the sidewalks; trimmed grass, the waxy surfaces of each blade reflecting the sunlight. Children run across the grass, giggling, and their mothers watch from atop their red and white checkered picnic blankets.

“We actually made it,” Vladimir says. He swallows hard. “Now what do we do?”

Anatoly turns to his brother. “We enjoy the day.”

Vladimir furrows his brows and frowns. “What if… What if someone find out we are not American?”

Anatoly grins. “Then we become legends. We have gotten farther than anyone else we know.”

“Not very reassuring, ‘Toly.”

Anatoly reaches out, cupping Vladimir’s face with his hand and brushing his thumb over the long, jagged scar running down his cheek. “Have a little faith.”

Vladimir flinches away from Anatoly, not wanting any kind of pressure on the scar. It still aches, sometimes, when his attention is on it. “I am not big on faith anymore.”

Anatoly pats Vladimir hard on the back, the way big brothers do, before digging both hands into his dirty, slightly torn jacket. He fishes out ten sterling pound and thirty-five pence from one of the pockets. “At least we will not go hungry tonight.”

“Maybe we will finally eat an American meal,” Vladimir says.

Anatoly eventually gets out of his spot and holds out a hand to his brother.

Vladimir rejects it by saying to him, “One more minute. I want to make sure this is not a dream felt in death.”

Sitting here, in one place, helps Vladimir remind himself that he’s alive and present. Ever since he’d returned home from war, he’d been having a hard time adjusting. His vision is better, almost back to normal, as is his hearing, but sometimes when there’s a loud, sudden noise Vladimir finds himself back in Lenino, Dmitry’s crippled body in the grass in front of him.

He supposes he’s mostly terrified by them being caught and being sent back to a grim fate. They have been running for too long, almost a year to the date. From foot, to train, to boat, they have made it across the Soviet lands, then to England, and finally to America. They have come too far to die.

Anatoly smiles gently. “Welcome to America,” he says, swinging his arms out wide as though presenting the country itself to Vladimir. “Who knows? Maybe we will meet a nice girl, show them not to be afraid of Communists.”

Vladimir shakes his head. “Do not ever say that again, or I will deport you myself.”

“I will think of something better. Do you want to exchange the money now?” Anatoly asks as he holds out the money to Vladimir.

Vladimir nods, taking the money from Anatoly. “Hand me one of the cakes as well, I am hungry.”

Anatoly opens his pack “Are you sure? Those pretty cakes did cost a lot to make.”

“And it cost us nothing to steal them. Besides, they’re useless if no one eats them. Now can I have one?” Vladimir holds open his hand.

Anatoly rolls his eyes, amused, before digging around his bag to find a tiny cake, like something made for a small child or doll. Carefully wrapped in a cloth napkin with pink embroidered swirls around the corners. Those cakes are the most expensive thing the brothers ever stole.

Vladimir knows he does not eat food to savour it like the crew onboard the ship would have. He is still very used to missing meals or eating bland, disgusting army rations which were next to nothing because for a country with no currency, it is hard to fund a war. But the cakes are sweet, soft, crumbling on his tongue and he can’t help but eat it slowly. He doesn’t know when he’ll eat something this sweet again.

“Better?”

Vladimir nods. “Yes.” He stands.

Anatoly gets back to his feet as well, nudging his brother in the side with his elbow. “Let’s go. America awaits.”

Vladimir shoves the cloth napkin into his pocket, and the two walk out of the park. Vladimir still can’t believe he is in America. It feels like a vivid dream—a dream where everything seems so perfect, he keeps wondering when he is going to wake up or if he actually died in battle and this is the afterlife.

They wander around New York City, trying to find a currency exchange center. Vladimir has never been more grateful for ignorant travellers, giving them money out of pity or simply dropping it during their race to wherever it was they needed to go.

“You do the talking,” Anatoly says. “You pull of a Polish accent better than I can. They will just assume you are from there.”

“People do know Poland better than Lithuania,” Vladimir says, taking the money from Anatoly. Anatoly raises a brow and shakes his head, a smirk playing across his features.

They soon find a centre based off the money symbols and Vladimir’s limited English. Anatoly waits outside the centre while Vladimir goes in, all the money in the pocket of his worn jacket.

“Good afternoon,” the woman behind the desk greets with a smile. Her red curls are neat, lipstick bright red and perfect on her lips. There’s a small hat perched on her head. She’s wearing a red, polka dot top.

“Good after-noon,” Vladimir replies, mimicking her words more than using his own vocabulary.

She looks at him for a moment with big, brown eyes before asking, “You’re not around here, are you?”

Vladimir gives a small nod and puts on his most charming, timid smile. “I am… from Poland,” he lies. “Warsaw. Arrived today, on boat.”

“Oh!” she exclaims. “Well.” She looks unsure, like she’s trying to think of what would be appropriate for her to say to him. “I guess you’re lucky, then.”

Vladimir nods again, looking away. “Yes, lucky.”

“So then, how I can help you today?” she asks with a bright grin, showing off pearly white teeth.

Vladimir carefully places the money on the counter. “I need American.”

The woman smiles “Can do. For someone who just came off the boat, your English is really good.”

She’s friendly, but Vladimir knows that she’s lying. His English is terrible and it’s no secret. Maybe she’s doing it to show how friendly Americans can be, even if the friendliness is manufactured. All Vladimir knows is that if she was to know the truth, that smile would fade and he wouldn’t be standing there much longer.

She takes the money and walks to the back.

Vladimir turns his head to see his brother still outside, hands in his pocket and looking around at the city. Anatoly had been reluctant to leave Russia—he thought staying behind the walls of Communism would’ve been alright, that they could’ve survived. But they’d both known that at any point they could’ve had a gun to their heads, regardless of whether or not they’d committed any crimes.

The woman soon comes back, heels clicking on the tiled floor. She’s carrying a few bills and coins. She says to Vladimir, “Here you go,” before putting the money down on the counter.

“Thank you,” Vladimir replies, tongue tripping over the English consonants, then picks up the money and shoves it into his pockets.

“Also, if you want a good place to eat that is easy on the wallet, there is this new place called Church’s Fried Chicken. It’s just down the road.” She says this too quickly. Vladimir squints at her, trying to process the rapid English. It takes him longer than he would like to understand her, but her accent is vastly different from what he had heard and gotten used to in London.

“Thank you,” Vladimir says eventually with a bit more confidence before quickly leaving the building, not wanting to say anymore.

Once he steps outside, Anatoly asks him in fluent Russian, “Did you get the money?” as though they have just robbed the exchange center.

“Yes, I did,” Vladimir replies evenly, then turns Anatoly and pulls the cash out of his pocket. “Want to try some American food?”

Anatoly beams. “Let’s ruin our bodies.”


End file.
